


Say Yes to the Stress

by 15Acesplz



Series: Happily Ever After 'verse [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And angst, Arguing, Bisexual Grantaire, Consent, Crying, Cute, Demisexual Enjolras, Drunk Dancing, Drunk Enjolras, Engagement, Enjolras is made of stress, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, Happy Ending, Honeymoon, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kissing, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Multi, Oral Sex, Poor Grantaire, That's right, Wedding Planning, Weddings, consent is so sexy!!!, he's a patient darling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6384397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/15Acesplz/pseuds/15Acesplz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you want to get married?"<br/>"I - Did you just propose to me over the phone?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“Grantaire? What’s wrong?” Enjolras shifted the phone to his shoulder and kept typing. Grantaire usually didn’t call, especially not while Enjolras was at work.

“Nothing, I, uh… I just wanted to say hi. I mean, I wanted to talk. I mean…” There was a pause. “What if we got married?”

Enjolras frowned, still half focused on his work. “I suppose we would gain considerable tax benefits. Why?”

He paused again. “Do you want to get married?”

Enjolras stopped typing. “I – Did you just propose to me over the phone?”

“…Yeah. I know, it’s a really stupid way to do it, but it’s been over four years and I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I’m busy all day and you’re busy later tonight and the only spare minute I have is now, and if I didn’t do it today I was going to lose my nerve and I assumed you wouldn’t be really busy right now… Oh, god, is this a bad time? You are busy, aren’t you? I’m sorry, we could talk about it later, or just forget this ever happened, it’s fine if you don’t want –”

“Aire, slow down,” he interrupted. “If you want to get married, let’s get married.”

“I thought you would – I – I did _not_ think you would say that, holy _shit!_ ” Grantaire’s voice went from resigned to shocked to elated as he registered what Enjolras had said. “Oh – oh my god, we’re getting _married!_ Holy – I love you. I’ve got a class to go to but I love you so much.”

Enjolras smiled. “I love you too, Aire.”

“This is – wow. Oh my – Okay! Bye!”

As soon as he hung up, Enjolras texted Courfeyrac.

_Will you help me buy an engagement watch?_

**_WHAT_ **

**_!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_ **

**_ARE U FCKIGN SERIOUS??!!!!_ **

_Grantaire just proposed to me, so, yes._

**_:DDDDDDDDDDDDD !!!!!!!!!_ **

**_YES I’LL HELP OFC_ **

_Thank you._

Enjolras set down his phone with a smile and went back to his work.

\- - - - -

When Enjolras got home late that night he found Grantaire sleepily sketching on the couch with the television playing a commercial for blenders.

“Aire, what are you doing up?” He set down his bag and walked over to where Grantaire sat.

Grantaire tilted his head back to see Enjolras. “I wanted to wait for you.”

“But you have classes tomorrow,” Enjolras protested, picking up the remote and turning off the TV. “You don’t get enough sleep as it is.”

“Yeah, but this was important.” He shifted on the couch so he was sitting up and leaned down to grab a box Enjolras hadn’t noticed at his feet. “I got you something.”

Enjolras smiled in spite of himself and sat down beside him. “Is it anything like the something I got you?”

“Well, open it,” Grantaire said, a playful curve at the corner of his mouth.

It was a watch, of course: rosewood with a black leather band and really quite perfect. It was the kind of thing that Enjolras could wear every day, and he knew he would want to, considering its significance. “It’s wonderful, Aire; thank you.” He fastened it around his wrist and they kissed briefly, then he stood up and strode over to his bag. “I guess it’s only fair that you get yours now. I’ll admit, Courfeyrac helped a lot.”

“Well, Bahorel helped me. I think we can call it even,” Grantaire said as Enjolras sat back down, box in hand. He opened it and his face went through a range of emotions before settling on shock. “Ange, I – I can’t take this, it’s so much nicer than what I got you!” It was in fact a very expensive watch; black and gold and untraditionally square with four diamonds marking the quarter hours.

“Don’t be silly, of course you can.” When Grantaire looked ready to object he continued, “And don’t even ask me how much it cost because I don’t care about that. I got it because I thought it would suit you.”

Grantaire looked at the watch, then at Enjolras, then back at the watch, and sighed, conceding. “You’re too good to me.”

“Nonsense. You deserve good.” Enjolras put the watch on Grantaire’s wrist and then caught his hand, looking at the watches together. It was only then that it really registered that this was actually happening. “Hey,” he nudged Grantaire’s side, “we’re engaged.”

And who could blame him if he sounded giddy, and if he burst into peals of laughter when Grantaire tackled him down onto the couch in an embrace? He was getting married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who wrote a wedding fiiiic! Ahhh, I'm so excited! I know this first bit is ridiculously short, which I excuse by calling it the prologue. It is also ridiculously saccharine, which will not be true for the whole story. It's going to be a fluctuation between sweet and painful.  
> This is in the same universe as my fic Mistletoe, which you don't need to read to keep up but which I suggest you do read, because it's really fucking cute.  
> And I have tons to say about everything that's happened in the four or so years between that fic and this one!  
> Enjolras and Grantaire started dating at the tail end of 2015, when Enjolras was in grad school and Grantaire was a mess with a useless art degree. They were both canon age, so when this fic starts, in 2019, Enjolras is 29 and Grantaire is 31, which I find endlessly amusing. He spent most of 2017 getting sober, then realized he needed to get the rest of his act together and went back to school to become an art teacher. In 2019 he's in his third year, and by the time of the wedding (April 25th, 2020, if anyone cares) he'll be approaching his last year.  
> I could go into detail about all the French wedding traditions but I'll spare you. If anyone really wants to know anything about French weddings hit me up, because I probably know it. I did so much research.  
> Whew! I think that's it! Thanks for reading and sorry for all the notes! Another chapter will be posted next Monday!


	2. Six Months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturdays used to be for catching up on sleep and shameless domesticity. Now they were exclusively for wedding planning.

Saturdays used to be for catching up on sleep and shameless domesticity. Now they were exclusively for wedding planning.

“So what do you think we’ll be able to manage?” Grantaire asked nervously, drumming his fingers on the kitchen table.

“Give me a minute.” Enjolras squinted at the hodgepodge of numbers. “After rent, electricity, and the food budget – oh, and my loans, looks like we’ll have…” he punched something into the calculator, “a little over five thousand euros. If we agreed that this is going to be in April, that is.”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “Five thousand. Is that enough for a wedding budget?”

Enjolras eyed him carefully. “Well… I did a little research, and it’ll be tight but I think we can make it work.”

His tone suggested that he really meant, ‘I did a little research, and this is going to be a cheap ass wedding’. Grantaire toyed with the hem of his shirt, his heart sinking. “Great,” he said quickly. He was probably responsible, even though he knew if he voiced that thought Enjolras would deny it. He just felt like such a burden. He was thirty-one and a minimum wage waiter tripping his way through a barebones teacher’s education after wasting eight or so years of his life on an art degree and a quest to see the bottom of every bottle. And of course Enjolras, two years his junior, had gotten his license on time, had gone on to grad school with a hefty scholarship, and three years later had a stable job with an actual yearly salary at a government office and was handling his loans like a champ, all while keeping the ABC up and running. Grantaire contributed to the food budget and their rent, and that was about it. If they couldn’t afford a nice wedding, it was definitely his fault.

“Okay, that’s done.” Enjolras stored away all the calculation papers in their wedding folder, with the final budget circled in red pen, and checked off a box on his crazy-long master list of things to do before the big day. After they’d gotten through the dazed celebration part of being engaged he’d immediately started making plans. “Next we have to pick our witnesses, and flower children, if we want them.”

“Maybe I could work some extra hours to make things a little nicer,” Grantaire said absently.

“What are you talking about, what does that have to do with –” Enjolras stopped and sighed. “Is this about the budget? Grantaire, it’s fine if we don’t have a big, lavish wedding. I don’t think I’d even want it to be like that.”

Grantaire met his gaze, uncertain. “Really?”

“Really,” he confirmed. “You know that’s not really our style anyway. If we had a big wedding, who would we even invite?”

Grantaire cracked a smile. “Oh I don’t know, maybe your entire expansive, wealthy family? Or maybe my coworkers, they’d –”

“I’m not inviting my family,” Enjolras said abruptly.

 He paused. A smart man would let the subject drop. Grantaire was not a very smart man. “Not even your parents?” he asked after a tense silence.

“They wouldn’t want to come. Can we talk about the guest list _later_? We’re doing this now.” He tapped his notepad for emphasis.

“No, seriously, wait a second.” Grantaire put up his hand. “How do you know they wouldn’t want to come? Did you ask?”

“Why does it matter so much?” Enjolras snapped, scowling. “I don’t want to invite them, okay?”

“Won’t they be bothered by the fact that they weren’t invited to their only son’s wedding?” Something inside Grantaire told him he should really stop pushing, but he didn’t like how secretive Enjolras was acting.

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them!” Enjolras spat out.

Grantaire’s mouth fell open. Then he closed it and swallowed. “You… You didn’t tell your parents we’re getting married?”

Enjolras crossed his arms and looked away. “No, I did not.”

“Why the hell not?” Anger flared up in Grantaire, as well as a little bit of hurt. “What, you don’t want to tell them you’re marrying an alcoholic artist with no money?”

“You’ve been sober for almost three years,” he said through gritted teeth.

Grantaire ignored his comment and started pacing the kitchen. “Christ, Ange, were you just not going to tell them? Or was it going to be something you just casually mentioned so it wouldn’t seem important? ‘Hey Mom, hey Dad, I have a husband. No, you can’t meet him, he might embarrass me’!” Grantaire knew he was getting too upset about something so small, but it didn’t feel small at all.

Enjolras stood up, his hands balling into fists. “Don’t even pull that shit on me, Aire, you don’t have the right! You actually talk to your parents. You actually have a good relationship with them. I know things were patchy with your dad for a while but at least he respects you! I’ve never had that. I don’t want to tell my parents I’m getting married because it’ll just give them another opportunity to review every choice I’ve ever made that they disapprove of!”

“Oh, so I’m another bad decision now, huh?” He’d started shouting, and Enjolras followed his lead.

“You know damn well this isn’t about you! What did your mom say when you called her with the news? She was delighted, right? _They_ wouldn’t be like that. They might even try to talk me out of it, because, yeah, you’re right, how much money you make would come up, and it would matter to them because they’re privileged, materialistic socialites. I do not want to open that can of worms and you shouldn’t try to make me!”

He was standing inches away from Grantaire, his face flushed with anger. “I’m not trying to make you,” Grantaire said, his voice quiet and level. “I just wish that after everything I’ve done for you, you’d do this one thing for me.” He turned and stalked out of the kitchen. Enjolras followed behind.

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” he yelled.

Grantaire pulled on his coat with one hand and opened the door with the other. “It means I think you’re being selfish!” He slammed the door shut.

\- - - - -

“And… and I told him I didn’t tell my parents about the engagement, and…”

“You fought about it?”

Enjolras nodded. “Mm-hm. And now he’s probably over at Joly’s where he always goes when we’ve fought, telling him and Bossuet and Musichetta what a horrible fiancé I am.” He adjusted the phone against his ear and exhaled hard, frustrated. “We’re getting married, Ferre, this shouldn’t be happening.”

Combeferre heaved a sigh. “Enjolras, you and Grantaire are going to fight no matter how far you take your relationship. And everything will still be fine. It’s _normal._ ”

“This is my fault,” Enjolras muttered. “He said it himself; I’m being silly and selfish and a horrible, horrible fiancé.”

“Are you even listening to me? First of all, you’re not horrible for refusing to do something that makes you uncomfortable. Second of all, it isn’t Grantaire’s place to say you have to do _anything._ ” Combeferre paused. “That being said, I want to say as your friend that I think you should tell your parents.”

Enjolras sighed. “God, you’re right. Of course you are. I should just… get it over with.”

“Right,” Combeferre said encouragingly. “And who knows, maybe they won’t support you. But maybe they will. Maybe they won’t come to the wedding. And if they do, they could behave badly or surprisingly well. My point is, no matter what happens you will be able to move on from it and you won’t have to hide the fact that you’re married from your parents until they just happen to find out.”

He cringed. “Yeah, that would definitely be worse than just telling them.” He sighed again and gathered himself. “Thanks, Ferre, I think I’m going to call them now. I don’t want Grantaire to think I did it because he wanted me to,” he added darkly.

If Combeferre felt an urge to address his obvious resentment, he thought better of it. “Feel free to call again if you need to talk, okay?”

“Okay. Bye.”

\- - - - -

Grantaire lingered in the doorway of the living room, watching Enjolras work, hunched over at his desk typing. He cleared his throat, and the clack of the keyboard ceased. “Hey, Ange,” he said sheepishly.

Enjolras started typing again without looking at him. “Oh. You’re back.” His tone was cool and stiff.

Grantaire’s eyes flicked around the room. “Yeah. I’m back. Listen, I’ve been thinking and I guess it doesn’t really matter if you tell your parents we’re getting married. I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want to. Not that I’m saying –”

“Oh, I already told them,” he said briskly.

Grantaire blinked. “You did?”

“Yes. Combeferre thought it was a good idea.”

He could tell that that statement was a deliberate weapon, an insinuation meant to wound him: Enjolras would rather take Combeferre’s advice than do something just because Grantaire wanted him to. Admittedly, it did sting a little. He sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For yelling at you, for… for everything.”

He waited for Enjolras to return the apology, but he only closed his laptop, stood up and breezed past Grantaire to the kitchen, saying, “I can make dinner.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a day late! I realize that and I'm very sorry but it fucking snowed! In April! And we had the first snow day all year! In April! Fuck weather. Buuuuut anyway I didn't have wifi yesterday so I couldn't post. My apologies.  
> And so the emotional rollercoaster begins. The overarching poibnt of this is that Enjolras has a lot going on in his head and so he is going to totally flip about the wedding. It's going to be a mess.  
> Anyway, you can probably tell that he doesn't have a great relationship with his parents. They care about him and aren't bad people; they just have very different values and viewpoints. It's mostly his problem, not theirs.  
> Thus far the chapter titles will refer to how far away the wedding is.  
> Okay so a little more info about French stuff! In France they actually take separation of church and state seriously and so the only marriages legally recognized are civil marriages, not religious ceremonies. Some people will also have a religious ceremony anyway, but not everyone and probably not Grantaire and Enjolras. So because of that, instead of bridesmaids and groomsmen and stuff they just have witnessess. I think that's all that came up for this chapter!  
> And I'm totally loving all the comments and just that you guys are as excited about this as I am! Yay! :D  
> Next chapter will be posted in six days to get us back on the Monday schedule!


	3. Five Months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, so I talked to Zelma and we’ve decided we’re not going to be your flower girls.”

“Éponine! Hi!”

“Hey, Aire,” his cousin replied cheerily through the phone. “Okay, so I talked to Zelma and we’ve decided we’re not going to be your flower girls.”

Grantaire did his best to suppress his dismay. “Oh. Okay. Shit, I don’t know how we’re going to find anyone else to do it, I don’t know any actual kids and Enjolras doesn’t talk to his family –”

“You may kindly refer to us,” Éponine interrupted, “as your flower bitches.”

“Oh, you’re horrible!” Grantaire cried gleefully. “I can’t believe you made me think I was going to have to rent flower kids. Thanks so much, Ponine!”

Éponine laughed. “Anything for you, cousin dear.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to tell Ange, he’s been so goddamn stressed, he thought you might not even call back!”

“He’s crazy, I wouldn’t do that to you. Oh, and before I forget: you need a photographer, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, I am a photographer, dumbass,” she said scornfully. “I’ll do your photos for free if you let me make a project with them.”

Grantaire’s face broke into a grin. “Oh my god, seriously? Ponine, I can’t thank you enough! I have to –”

“Tell Enjolras, I know.” Grantaire heard what sounded like a scoff. “From what you’ve said, he’s been stressed about everything.”

He winced. “Yeah, pretty much. It’s been… rough. But it’ll all be worth it in the end.” He felt like he was convincing himself more than Éponine. The tension between him and Enjolras had only increased since their argument about his parents.

“Whatever you say,” Éponine sighed. “I have to go, Aire. Bye.”

“Bye. And thanks again!”

\- - - - -

“Hey, Ange, you’ll never guess who called today!” Grantaire hollered through the apartment, walking to the living room to find Enjolras grinding his teeth at his desk.

“If it wasn’t the owner of a small but classy venue that we can afford to rent, I really don’t care,” he said irritably. Then he paused and massaged his forehead. “I’m glad you’re home,” he sighed.

Grantaire came up behind him and kissed his head, glancing at the laptop screen. “Still haven’t found a place, huh?”

“No, it’s ridiculous! It’s like no one has small weddings anymore! All the places with dining areas are too big, and the ones that are the right size are designed for cocktail parties. I thought Montparnasse 56 might do, but we’d have to rent tables and we can’t afford that.”

“You could pick the smallest reception hall and hope for the best?” Grantaire suggested.

Enjolras’s brow creased into a scowl. “Be serious,” he snapped.

Grantaire grimaced. Lately he felt he always had to be cautious for fear of setting Enjolras off, he’d been so tetchy. “Sorry, just an idea. Here, let me look.” He reached for the tracking pad and scrolled through a few pages. “What about Le Standard? It’s not huge, they have tables and chairs, and it says they come with this caterer…”

Enjolras squinted at the screen and frowned. “It’s close, but still too expensive. We’d have to cut back on something else.”

“Oh, well, we can take it out of the photographer.”

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras burst out, exasperated. “We can’t scrimp on pictures; we have to put them on the ABC blog!”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “We don’t have to scrimp on pictures, Ange. Do you want me to tell you who called today or not?”

Enjolras huffed out a sigh. “Fine. Who was it?”

“Éponine. We have flower bitches and a volunteer photographer.”

His eyes widened. “Really? Aire, that’s great, I –” He faltered. “Flower bitches?”

Grantaire laughed and shrugged. “That’s what they said. To be fair, they aren’t exactly flower kids.”

“And Éponine is going to take photos for us?”

“Yeah, she just wants copies to use for school.”

“This is fantastic! Let’s make the reservation!” Enjolras pulled out his phone and punched in the number for Le Standard. He smiled at Grantaire, but Grantaire bit his lip and couldn’t bring himself to smile back. Enjolras was happy now, but who knew how long that would last?

\- - - - -

“We were planning on two bouquets in vases and two baskets of petals,” Enjolras told the florist. “Right, Aire?” He turned his head. Grantaire had wandered halfway across the room and was reading some sort of card in front of a flower display. “Grantaire!”

His head snapped up, a blank look on his face. “What?”

“Are you _listening_?”

He shook his head, and Enjolras huffed angrily.

“Get over here, and pay attention!” He waited, irate, until Grantaire shuffled his way back to the counter. “As I was _saying_ , we want two bouquets in vases and two baskets of petals, _right_?”

Grantaire frowned. “Yeah, we’ve talked about this a million times, why did you need to check again?”

He crossed his arms, pressing his lips together tightly. “I should think you would want to be involved in planning your own wedding. But apparently, you don’t think this is that important.”

 “I know it’s important, Ange,” Grantaire said, looking irritated. “That’s why I skipped a class to come to the goddamn florist’s with you.”

“I think you’re being very thankless, Grantaire,” Enjolras started, but Grantaire interrupted.

“You know, that’s funny, because that’s exactly how I think you’ve been acting! What do you want, should I go out of my way to _thank_ you for agreeing to marry me? Is that what you think I should be more _thankful_ for?”

Enjolras glared and opened his mouth to reply, but then the florist cleared his throat. They had both forgotten he was there. “I’ll give you two a minute to decide.” He walked to the back room, leaving them alone.

“I’m surprised, Ange,” Grantaire muttered. “I don’t think you’d pitch a fit in front of the florist.”

“I didn’t –” he protested, but it dawned on him that maybe he had. “You started it,” he shot back instead.

“I did not, I was just reading about the fucking irises, and then you jumped down my throat because I got a little distracted!” Grantaire ran a hand across his face, sighing. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this today.”

Enjolras felt a twinge of guilt. “Grantaire, no, I – We’re already here, let’s just…” Grantaire looked at him expectantly. He knew what he wanted him to say, but it was so hard to say it. “I don’t want you to miss any more class,” he said instead.

Grantaire’s expression turned stony. “Fine. We’ll pick out some fucking flowers.”

He stayed surly and silent until the florist came back in. “Have you decided an arrangement?” he asked politely.

“Yes, we’re quite certain,” Enjolras said. “Two bouquets in vases and two baskets of petals.”

“Have you thought about which flowers you’d like?”

Enjolras was about to answer no when Grantaire cut in with, “Yeah, we have. I mean, I have.” Enjolras couldn’t help but steal a startled glance at him. He was smiling sheepishly and digging a scrap of paper out of his pocket. “Sorry I didn’t tell you. It’s kind of sappy and embarrassing.” He held out the paper, blushing, and Enjolras squinted at his chicken-scratch handwriting. The list read, ‘ _apple blossoms (promise), baby’s breath (festivity), bachelor buttons (anticipation), gardenias (joy), hydrangeas (perseverance), peonies (healing)’_.

“Grantaire,” he said softly, “this is lovely, I can’t believe you did this.” He shoved the list at the florist. “Does _exactly_ this sound doable?”

The florist scanned it over. “Yes, if that’s what you’d like. I’m assuming your wedding colors are white, pink, and blue?”

Enjolras looked at Grantaire, confused. “No, we don’t really have a color scheme…”

He was red-faced and still smiling shyly. “Well, I had to look them up to make sure they matched okay,” he professed.

Enjolras beamed and squeezed his hand. “Yes,” he told the florist, “that’s what we’d like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have NO IDEA how important their flower arrangement is to me! It would look really pretty AND it's super meaningful with like the perseverance and healing that's so important for their relationship and I just *falls*  
> That's basically all I got for now. Oh! Eponine, Azelma, and Gavroche are Grantaire's cousins, for those of you who haven't read the first installation of this universe. And Eponine is in photography school. I believe she's like 23 or so now, and Azelma is 19ish,.  
> Same time, same site, next Monday!


	4. Four Months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing Enjolras said when he picked up was, “Why weren’t you answering the goddamn phone, Grantaire?”

“What do you think?”

Grantaire frowned and adjusted the suit jacket, examining his appearance from every angle in the mirror. “I don’t know, Joly.”

“I like it,” Bossuet said confidently.

“Me too,” Joly agreed, nodding. “It _suits_ you.” Bossuet snorted, ducking his head. “Puns aside, it really does look good.”

“It makes you look taller,” Bossuet supplied.

Grantaire took a step back. “Yeah, it kind of does,” he realized. “And I like the material. Okay, I guess this is the one.”

As the tailor steered him to a stool to stand on for measurements, Joly asked, “So, how have things been with Enjolras?”

Grantaire made a face. “Not good. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but he’s been so difficult.”

“He’s probably really stressed,” Bossuet pointed out.

Joly nodded in agreement. “Yeah, he does have a lot on his plate. Work, the ABC, the wedding… and it doesn’t help that we’re publicizing the wedding for LGBT+ promotion.”

“I know, and I’m trying to be understanding, but he acts like everything is a problem and it’s always _my_ fault,” he complained. “And I don’t think he’s apologized even once.”

“But since when does Enjolras apologize for anything?” Bossuet raised his eyebrows.

“He used to apologize to me,” Grantaire mumbled. “We would fight and I’d come whining to you guys and then I’d go back and say I was sorry and he would too. But now we fight and we don’t make up. He just pretends it never happened.” He sighed heavily. “I hate it. It’s like how it was when we first met.”

“Cheer up, Aire,” Joly encouraged. “You’re getting married. Besides, he’ll probably start acting normal once the wedding is done.”

“That’s a long way away,” Grantaire said glumly.

“Hey, Aire,” Bossuet interrupted, “Enjolras just texted me. He wants you to call him.”

Grantaire groaned. “Joly, will you get my phone? It’s in my jeans.” He glanced at Bossuet nervously. “Did he ask in that polite way he does when he’s mad but not at you?”

“Uh, let me see. Yeah, looks like it; choppy, grammatically perfect sentences.”

“Oh, shit,” he muttered.

“Arms straight out, please,” the tailor said.

Grantaire complied, then looked at Joly pleadingly. “Can you put him on speakerphone?”

The first thing Enjolras said when he picked up was, “Why weren’t you answering the goddamn phone, Grantaire?”

“I’m sorry! It was in my pocket; you know I’m getting my suit. That’s what we agreed, right? You go to the caterer and I get my suit?”

“I know, but I should at least be able to contact you! I texted, and I called twice!” Enjolras berated him.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Grantaire repeated. “What is it?”

“The caterers said they’d do our cake, and it’s a good deal for us, too.”

“I don’t see the problem.”

“We haven’t planned a cake yet! Ugh, this is going all wrong!” There was a pause, and he said, “I need you to come here so we can pick a cake.”

“Enjolras, I’m getting fitted, I can’t just leave! Just schedule another meeting with them and we’ll pick our cake.”

“I can’t! You know we’re busy all through this week, and if we postpone food plans any longer there won’t _be_ food!”

“Jesus, Ange, just calm down!” Grantaire sighed. “Look, why don’t you ask what kinds of cake they can do? We’ll pick one together now.”

Enjolras huffed. “Okay. Fine. They gave me a list, and they can do vanilla, yellow, chocolate, or marble; up to three tiers…” Enjolras rattled through the list, naming icings and decorations and fillings, and Grantaire’s head spun. “…and they’ve got a section called “Special’. They’ll do Bundt cake, carrot cake, cheesecake, or croquembouche.”

Grantaire scrunched up his forehead, trying to make his headache go away. “How about croquembouche?”

There was a noticeable silence before Enjolras said, “Really? Just croquembouche?”

“I mean, it’s traditional, and it’s simple – we don’t have to pick icing or any of that junk – and everyone likes croquembouche.”

“Yeah, okay,” Enjolras said slowly. “Simple. That sounds good. Oh, I hope that it won’t be more expensive because it’s listed as special – What?” Grantaire heard a muffled voice. “Oh, they said it’d be the same price. Okay. As long as you’re sure that’s what we want.”

“Are _you_ sure?”

“Yeah, I think it’d be great. Especially since we’re having such a small wedding.”

“Then it’s settled.”

“Okay, I’ll let them know. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“Bye.”

Enjolras hung up, and Grantaire looked at Joly and Bossuet. “See what I mean? He’s totally freaking out.”

“Yeah…” Bossuet agreed hesitantly.

“He just went through like four emotions in five minutes,” Joly observed. “That’s not good for a person.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Grantaire sighed.

“You could do something nice for him,” Joly suggested.

“Yeah, something romantic! Show him that you care and that you’re really trying to help your relationship through this difficult time.” Bossuet said.

“Exactly.”

Grantaire thought about it. “Okay, I’ll try it. At this point it’s the only idea I’ve got.”

\- - - - -

“Grantaire, I’m home,” Enjolras called. He shed his coat, rubbing his forehead, and made his way to the kitchen. “You wouldn’t believe the day I just had, I’m –” He stopped in his tracks. There were two places set at the table, and roses laying on the kitchen counter, and a hot dish sitting next to it. Grantaire was kneeling on the counter and rummaging through a cupboard. “Grantaire, what’s going on?”

Grantaire turned, clutching a candle and cringing. “Ah, shit, I thought I had more time – Go to the living room!” he ordered.

“Why?” Enjolras said bemusedly.

“Because _this_ ,” he swept an arm across the scene, “was supposed to be a surprise. Come on, Ange, just give me this one and go to the living room,” he pleaded.

Enjolras bit back a smile. “Okay, I’m going.”

In the living room he busied himself removing his tie, until he heard Grantaire yell, “Okay, you can come in now!”

In the short time that Enjolras was in the living room, Grantaire had turned off the lights, lit candles lined up along the counter, served two plates of his dish, and picked up the bundle of roses, which he held out with a nervous smile on his face. “Um, these are for you. Obviously. I mean, uh… here.”

Enjolras took the flowers with a small laugh. “Aire, what is all this, really?”

“It’s nothing!” Grantaire insisted, ducking his head. “I just wanted to do something nice.”

He tutted. “Don’t give me that, ‘it’s nothing’. This is amazing, Aire! Flowers and candles and – what kind of dish is that?”

Grantaire snorted, blushing. “Foie gras from a can.”

“Oh, well, that is impressive,” Enjolras chuckled. “Really, though, I love this. I love you. Thank you, Aire.” He kissed Grantaire, and tried to put all the gratitude he didn’t have words for into that kiss. “Now,” he said with a playful smile once they broke apart, “astound me with your convenience cooking skills.”

\- - - - -

 It was almost inevitable that after Grantaire’s romantic dinner the two of them ended up in their bedroom, Enjolras straddling Grantaire while they exchanged languid kisses and steadily shed clothing. Enjolras rolled his hips against Grantaire’s, discovered that he quite liked how that felt, and kept doing it. Grantaire moaned into his mouth and pulled back half an inch. “God,” he gasped, wrestling open his pants, “I can’t wait until the fucking wedding is done.” He leaned in closer but Enjolras stiffened, halting Grantaire with a hand on his shoulder.

“What _the hell_ is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

Grantaire looked like he instantly understood that he’d said the wrong thing. “I – I just meant that it’s been kind of stressful and… and it’ll be nice to get the wedding over with.”

“ _Get it over with_?” Enjolras repeated incredulously.

“Yeah, I mean –”

Enjolras scoffed and got off Grantaire’s lap. “Grantaire, if you don’t want a proper wedding, then by all means, tell me,” he said sarcastically. “We can drop by City Hall tomorrow morning and get married in our pajamas!”

Grantaire scowled. “That’s not what I meant, Ange, you’re being ridiculous!”

“No, _you’re_ being ridiculous!” Enjolras countered. “And _ungrateful_! You ought to know how tight money has been for us, and you ought to be more grateful that we can even afford to get married, with the way things are!”

“Jesus Christ!” Grantaire burst out. “ _Now_ this is an issue? I thought you _wanted_ a simple wedding! You _said_ you did, you said you didn’t care about the small budget!” 

“Maybe I do care! Maybe sometimes I wish you had a real job!” he yelled.

“I can’t _get_ a real job, Ange, I don’t have the fucking credentials, and you know I’m working on that!”

“If you’d had your goddamn _life_ in order in university, maybe you already would have the _fucking credentials_!” Enjolras shot back.

Grantaire stared at him in shock. He could immediately see that he’d hurt Grantaire and was already mad at himself for being so stupid. How could he do that, poke at Grantaire’s biggest insecurities just because he was feeling stressed? He felt frozen in place, watching Grantaire get up and fix his clothes, his every movement bristly and defensive. “Where are you going?” he finally managed to shout, once Grantaire had walked out of the bedroom.

“Out!” Grantaire shouted back. “Sometimes I can’t stand this fucking apartment!” The front door slammed.

\- - - - -

Enjolras pretended to be sleeping when Grantaire returned and quietly snuck into bed. He didn’t want to talk to him – actually, he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He couldn’t even bring himself to call Combeferre and vent to him after Grantaire left, because he knew Combeferre would just gently point out that he was at fault and he would feel twice as ashamed as he already did. He didn’t want to admit to Combeferre that he was wrong, and he didn’t want to admit to Grantaire that he was wrong, and when he finally forced himself to go to sleep, he knew he wouldn’t be mentioning the fight at all in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! Sexytimes turned into fightytimes!!! This is basically the rest of the fic; this horrible, tense back-and-forth with no real resolutions until the bitter end.  
> For anyone who doesn't know, croquembouche is a cone shaped tower of cream puffs held together with delicious things like caramel and spun sugar and traditionally, almonds. It's also traditionally served at Italian and French weddings and ceremonies in lieu of cake.  
> Expect an update next Monday, as Enjolras continues to veer ever closer to a breakdown! :D


	5. Three Months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Grantaire, you know I’m at work, right?” Enjolras answered his phone.
> 
> “Yeah, and I’m sorry if you’re busy, but this is important.”

“Okay, go through it one more time,” Enjolras requested, closing his eyes to focus.

Grantaire cleared his throat and scanned the messy, pencil-smudged list. “Okay, um, night before, you go to Combeferre’s and I go to Joly’s.”

“And what do we do before we go?” Enjolras prompted.

“Pack everything,” Grantaire recited, “using our lists.” Enjolras nodded, and he continued. “Then it splits –”

“Go to the Combeferre schedule,” he directed.

“Right. So at Combeferre’s place, Courfeyrac showers at seven thirty, Combeferre showers at eight, and you shower at eight thirty.”

“And now the Joly schedule.”

“Joly showers at seven thirty, Bossuet showers at eight, I shower at eight thirty, and Musichetta showers whenever the hell she wants as long as she’s on time to dinner.”

“Exactly. Keep going with the main schedule.”

“Everyone has to be dressed by eleven, and we get married at noon. Then at four dinner starts, at five we bring out the croquembouche, at six Courfeyrac starts toasts, and at eight we start dancing.”     

“And we leave?”

“And we leave,” Grantaire confirmed. “At roughly three in the morning. Jesus, what a day.”

“Well, it’s a special day,” Enjolras reasoned, smiling and taking the harassed piece of paper from Grantaire. “I think we’ve finally got it, just let me type it up and email it to all the witnesses.”

Grantaire flopped back onto the couch. “Please don’t make me read over the night before packing lists.”

“I won’t,” Enjolras said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “As long as you promise me that you’ll have the invitations printed _tomorrow_.”

“I promise, okay? You don’t understand, anyway,” he grumbled halfheartedly. “No print

shop should ever be that busy on a Wednesday afternoon.”

Enjolras hummed. “As long as you get it done by tomorrow. If we don’t send invitations to the guests by the end of the month, there won’t _be_ guests.”

Grantaire frowned. “You know you can trust me with the important stuff, right?”

“I could trust you a lot more if we’d been addressing envelopes last night.”

He just sighed. “I’ll get the invitations, Ange. Don’t worry.”

Enjolras didn’t look up from his keyboard. “It’s my _job_ to worry, Aire.”

\- - - - -

**_Joly my man!_ **

**_Need some help here_ **

_Help with what?_

**_So as you know operation cheer up Enjolras was a disaster_ **

**_I want to try again but in a way that I can’t possibly say something stupid_ **

_Hmmm…_

_Hey bro this is Bossuet and I come bearing an idea_

\- - - - -

“Grantaire, you know I’m at work, right?” Enjolras answered his phone.

“Yeah, and I’m sorry if you’re busy, but this is important.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to propose to me again?”

“Can you stop bringing that up? It’s embarrassing,” Grantaire griped.

“Okay, then what did you call for?” he asked, smiling slightly.

“Check your email.”

With a small resigned sigh, Enjolras obliged, pulling up and refreshing his inbox. There was a file he’d been waiting for from a harried intern, and underneath it an email from Grantaire with no subject. “Why couldn’t you just say what’s in the email on the phone,” he asked, quickly scanning over the email from the intern, “or better yet, text me?”

“For Christ’s sakes, Ange, just open the email,” Grantaire said impatiently.

“Okay, although I don’t see what –” He stopped. The email started out with a bold title, _‘Argelés-sur-Mer’_ , underneath which was a picture of a sparkling beach. He kept scrolling, looking at pictures of sailboats and cyclers on mountainsides and campsites with mobile homes; a map of France with a highlighted route, captioned _‘Nine hours by car’_ ; a neat chart of expenses; all nestled among descriptive paragraphs of a charming seaside vacation spot. “Grantaire,” he said breathlessly, “did you do this?”

Grantaire snorted. “No, my evil twin did it. Of course it was me.”

“And this is…?”

“Well, uh… I guess you could say it’s a proposed honeymoon trip.” Grantaire sounded bashful, but pleased nonetheless. “I wanted it to be Monaco, but, yeesh. We might as well pay to fly halfway across the world.”

“Aire, this is lovely, why did you do it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I thought you seemed like you had a lot on your mind and it would help if I planned something. You know, so you didn’t have to.”

Enjolras glanced back at the computer screen. “Argelés, huh?” he murmured. He leaned closer and read right off the email. “‘Camping la Marende is one of the quietest of Argelés’ primarily family-oriented campsites, with various-sized mobile homes, the smallest being a sixteen square meter dwelling for one to two people. A seven-day stay in May (before the tourist months) is a reasonable bargain of under three hundred euros’ – Grantaire, I don’t what to say!”

“Do you want to go?” Grantaire asked tentatively.

“What are you talking about, of course I do! It sounds perfect. This is wonderful, Aire, really.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Grantaire said, then, after a pause, “and I’m excited to go with you. I’m excited for us to get married and go to the beach and I’m glad we’re having a wedding. I didn’t mean what I said. A few weeks ago about wanting the wedding to be over. I’m sorry about that.”  

Enjolras opened his mouth, but no words came out. He didn’t know how to respond to that – an apology. Part of him couldn’t even fathom that Grantaire was apologizing when he’d barely done anything wrong. And now Enjolras was on the spotlight, probably expected to apologize in return, and he just couldn’t. He couldn’t, because apologizing now would entail apologizing for everything, and he didn’t think there were enough words in the world to show how shameful he was of how he’d been acting.

“Enjolras?”

“I’m excited for the wedding too,” he said quietly. “I have to go now, Aire.” He hung up before Grantaire could say goodbye and buried his face in his hands. He had no idea how to make things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italicized/boldface words are texts! But that's probably obvious.  
> The honeymoon was THE MOST amazingly fun thing to plan! And all of it is super legit!  
> Expect three more chapters after this one, every Monday!!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Grantaire, we have to pick something. If we don’t pick and order favors soon –”
> 
> “– there won’t be favors,” Grantaire finished wearily. “I know.”

“Um, pens?”

“Cheap,” Grantaire responded in monotone from his spot where he hung upside down off the couch.

“Okay, then, what about nail files?” Enjolras tried.

“No one uses those,” he said contemptuously.

“Candles?”

“Hmmm. No. Kitschy.”

Enjolras groaned. “Grantaire, we have to pick something. If we don’t pick and order favors soon –”

“– there won’t _be_ favors,” Grantaire finished wearily. “I know.” Ultimatums of that nature had become Enjolras’s mantra in the past months. “Look, why don’t we just put five euros on everyone’s plate? Gavroche would love that.”

“He’s fifteen, he’d love it if we put fifty cents on his plate. Besides, that’s silly. A favor is supposed to be a long-lasting memento of a wonderful day.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Ange. I’m fresh out of ideas.”

“First of all, stop doing that, you’re turning purple,” he ordered. Grantaire heaved himself up onto the couch obligingly. He had been feeling lightheaded anyway. He watched as Enjolras scrolled through a list of wedding favors for sale. “What about these little jars?”

Grantaire frowned. “What would we put in them?”

“It says they’re for candy. Everyone likes candy; why don’t we do it? M&M’s, or something.”

“Hmm. Okay. Vroche loves chocolate.”

Enjolras shook his head and laughed. “You know, we have nineteen guests who _aren’t_ your kid cousin.”

“They’re just going to have to deal with the fact that they’re getting free chocolate and a kickass tiny jar because the ring boy will like it.”

He laughed again, and Grantaire smiled. He loved hearing that. “What should the lid say?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire shrugged. “Our initials and the date? Whatever.”

Enjolras typed a bit, then picked up his laptop and carried it to the couch, placing it on Grantaire’s stomach. “Does this look good?”

There was a 3-D model picture of the jar to design the lid on, and Enjolras had typed out in a curly print, ‘ _R + E, 4/25/20. Whatever.’_

Grantaire barked out a laugh. “Stop making fun of my lazy speech patterns,” he protested.

Enjolras reached over and deleted the last line, smiling. “Really, though, do you like the font?”

“Yeah, it’s good. We could probably wait until they arrive to buy M&M’s, maybe fill up the jars a couple days before the wedding.”

Enjolras nodded. “Okay. Sounds good. I’ll order them now.”

“What do we have left?” Grantaire inquired. “That costs money, I mean.”

“Just the rings. And we’re right on budget. And other than that… the caterers said they’ll make menu cards as part of our deal, the witnesses are planning the toasts and the bachelor party, and – Oh! We still have to arrange seating.”

“You want to do it now?”

Enjolras glanced at him warily. “Are you sure? We’ve done a lot today.”

“Why not?” Grantaire sat up and rifled through the wedding folder until he found the seating diagram Le Standard had provided. “How hard can it be?”

As it turned out, it was very hard to arrange twenty-two people at two twelve-seat tables.

“Enjolras, I can think of at least ten reasons that Bahorel shouldn’t be sitting across from my eighty-five year old grandma.”

“I didn’t know where else to put her!” Enjolras exclaimed.

“With Gavroche,” he suggested. “She likes Gavroche.”

Enjolras huffed, his eyebrows knit together. “Are you not looking at this paper? Gavroche is next to you and his sisters are on his other side. There’s no room, unless you want to shunt me over to the other table.”

“Maybe I should,” he grumbled.

“Grantaire, stop being contrary for once in your life!” Enjolras snapped.

“Okay, okay. We’ll move Bahorel, then.”

“Where?”

“Switch him and Cosette.”

Enjolras made the change and immediately shook his head. “Marius would flip if he wasn’t with Cosette. Someone else has to move.”

Grantaire rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache forming. “Switch her with Courfeyrac, then.”

“But then he’s sitting with my mother!”

“So?”

“She hates him.” Grantaire gave him a disbelieving look. “I’m not exaggerating, Aire, she hates him.”

He threw up his hands. “Okay, then move him again.”

“I guess he can go over here, if we move your aunt and uncle over.”

Grantaire groaned. “No, now they’re in the middle of everything! I didn’t even want to invite them!”

“Then why did you?” Enjolras demanded.

“We couldn’t just invite their kid and not include them, that’s rude.”

“Fine,” Enjolras bit out with another huff. “They can go over here.”

“Now all the witnesses are at the ends of the tables. Ange, that’s not going to work.” As soon as Grantaire pointed it out, he wished he hadn’t. Enjolras seemed ready to explode.

“Fine, I’ll rearrange everything!” He turned his pencil over and rubbed the eraser on the paper until it ripped and he stood up, slamming the paper and pencil down on the coffee table. “Ugh, I don’t care anymore! I’m done with the stupid seating chart!” He walked out of the room and Grantaire heard the bedroom door slam. He sighed and reached for the chart resignedly.

\- - - - -

Enjolras was seated on the edge of the bed, stewing, his hands fisted in his hair and his jaw set back, when Grantaire knocked softly and nudged the door open. “Hey, Ange,” he heard him say cautiously. “Um, I fixed the seats. If you want to see.”

Enjolras sighed and looked up. “Sure.” He scanned the chart. It made far more sense than any attempt they’d made while squabbling. Grantaire had put family members on one general side, and their friends on the other.

“It’s okay if you want to change anything, I mean, I thought you said you wanted to be next to Combeferre, but we could do something else, you know, if you wanted. And, um, I don’t know if it’s okay that your parents are right across from us, but –”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras cut him off with a sigh. “Thank you for fixing it.”

Grantaire smiled sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “Sorry for all the arguing.”

Oh, not that again. After that phone call, Grantaire had kept apologizing for the little rifts between them and leaving Enjolras feeling guilty, inadequate, and vulnerable. He bit his lip and averted his gaze. “I think I’m going to bed,” he said stiffly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lowkey hate this chapter, but that's okay because I highkey love the next one (hint hint it's the chapter that persuaded me to give this fic a mature rating)


	7. One Month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Party time! Party time! Party time! Party –”
> 
> “Chill out, Courf,” Grantaire laughed. “It’s just a bachelor party."

“Party time! Party time! Party time! Party –”

“Chill out, Courf,” Grantaire laughed. “It’s just a bachelor party. Not even a crazy bachelor party, which I know for certain because Ange has a principle against endorsing sex work and he’d murder you.”

Enjolras nodded in agreement. “And because you don’t drink and being sober when everyone’s plastered is not fun.”

Grantaire waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever, I don’t care if you guys want to get smashed. I’ve been drunk and annoying plenty of times to call it even.”

“No, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac whined, bouncing in his seat. “This is your party! Yours and Enjolras’s! We’re not going to ruin it with a bunch of booze.”

Grantaire scoffed, shifting uncomfortably. Even after so long, he didn’t like people making concessions for his sobriety. “Are we almost there?” he asked, looking out the taxi window.

“Almost,” Courfeyrac affirmed. “We did get wine, but no other alcohol. And we also got pizza, and those lime-flavored chips you like, Grantaire, and of course _I_ put together the perfect compilation of rockin’ music,” he told them proudly. “You’re gonna love it, the place we rented is badass.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes fondly, just as the taxi pulled to a stop. “Hey,” he said suddenly, “this is Loft Bastille!” He nudged Grantaire. “Aire, it’s Loft Bastille!”

It finally registered to him what Enjolras was talking about. “Oh, yeah!” He laughed and said, “Hey, Courf, you’re really lucky. We almost had our reception here!”

“Good thing you didn’t,” Courfeyrac responded smugly, “because the reception would seem lame as hell compared to the party you’re about to walk into!”

\- - - - -

“Aire, are you just going to sit here all night?” Éponine demanded, standing over him.

Two hours into the party, Grantaire had gotten worn out and retreated to an empty couch in the corner, hugging a bowl of lime-flavored chips. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He took a moment to eat another chip while Éponine sat down, crossing one leg over the other.

“You’re here to have fun,” she said. “Loosen up!”

“It’s hard to loosen up without liquor to do it for me. Especially when I’m already tense.” He glanced at Éponine, hoping she wouldn’t make him elaborate, but she was just watching him expectantly. He sighed. “Enjolras has been freaking out. I thought things might be better, now that we’ve planned basically everything, but no. He’ll just randomly ask me about something – I guess to make sure we did it – and then start yelling at me. Then he gets moody and won’t talk to me.” He stared down at his chips forlornly. “I just wish he’d talk to me,” he mumbled.

“Look, whatever it is making him act like that, he’ll get over it.” Éponine stole a handful of chips. “Go talk to him now, if you want to. He’s very chatty since people started giving him wine.” Grantaire raised his eyebrows, laughing a little, and made to get up. “And for god’s sakes, Aire, have fun. You’re getting married soon.”

He promised her that he would and thanked her for having a sympathetic ear, then scanned the room in search of his reportedly tipsy fiancé. He found him sitting at a spindly table, making the same decisive gesture over and over while he assumedly shared some sort of insight with an amused Combeferre. “– we could, what’s the word, garnish? We could garnish enough support to make this happen, Ferre. It’s so important to me, Ferre, it’s really, really –”

“What’re you guys up to?” Grantaire cut in.

“Enjolras is going to lead a whale rebellion,” Combeferre informed him, attempting to nod seriously and failing by smiling.

Grantaire fought a laugh. “Oh, really?”

“Listen here,” Enjolras said, putting his hand up. “I’ll have you know I’ve read the Declaration of the Rights of Man –” he paused to count on his fingers, “– at least more than two times, and why shouldn’t it be expended to the rights of marine creatures? They’re people too, you know. And, and one of those rights is to rise up and revolt, yeah, revolt against Japanese whalers. This is so important to me, you guys. So, so important.”

For the rest of the night Grantaire stuck by Enjolras’s side, partially to keep an eye on him and partially just for the entertainment. He continued to make jumbled plans for the whale uprising in between gulps of cheap wine, and eventually dragged Grantaire to the middle of the room to dance, which entailed jumping up and down in place no matter what tempo the current song was and making sure Enjolras didn’t fall. After Enjolras got tired of dancing he collapsed on the couch Grantaire had inhabited earlier and silently ate chips while blinking sleepily.

Grantaire checked his phone and glanced at Enjolras, who was slumped on his shoulder and licking lime dust off his fingertips. “Hey, Ange, it’s kind of late. Do you want to go home?”

Enjolras nodded. “But… but first we hafta say g’night to everyone.” He insisted on walking about hugging each of their friends and telling them all the reasons he loved them before he would agree to leave, by which time half an hour had passed.

He was mostly quiet on the taxi ride home, clinging to Grantaire, until he broke the silence and said, “In… how many days ‘til the wedding?”

“Twenty,” Grantaire provided.

“In twenty days we’ll be in a car just like this. ‘Cept it’ll be a limo. And we’ll be married. And I won’t want to go to bed so bad.”

Grantaire smiled. “Yeah. Just twenty days.”

“I’m going to love being married to you,” Enjolras sighed, nuzzling his face into Grantaire’s neck. “I love you a lot.”

“I love you too,” Grantaire murmured. To his surprise, Enjolras shifted slightly and started kissing his neck. “What are you doing, Ange?”

“I wanna show you how much I love you,” he breathed.

“And you want to show the taxi driver too?” he whispered. His breath hitched as Enjolras sucked on a particularly sensitive spot by his collarbone. “God, Ange,” he gasped, “don’t believe for a second I don’t love this, but can it wait?”

Enjolras didn’t say anything in response, but he didn’t stop, so that looked like a no. Grantaire struggled to maintain composure while Enjolras kept resolutely at his neck, but it was almost impossible not to let out shuddering breaths and an occasional low whine, blushing to his roots as he felt his jeans tighten. The taxi slowed to a stop and he tore himself away from a self-satisfied Enjolras to hurriedly pay and thank the driver. The minute the door closed and the taxi started off down the street, he looked at Enjolras, who was still leaning heavily on him to remain standing. “Look, Ange, I know you’ve been drinking, so I just want to make sure: would you mind terribly if we went upstairs and I sucked you off?”

\- - - - -

“You’re sure?” Grantaire asked again, his hands pausing on the hem of Enjolras’s underwear up in their bedroom. “You’re sure you want to do this? It’s okay if you don’t, even if it’s just because you’re tired. I wouldn’t care.”

“I’m sure, Aire,” Enjolras said. He was far more aroused than he was tired, after being kissed and undressed by Grantaire and watching him impatiently toss his own clothing aside. He didn’t even feel so cloudy anymore. Everything was just blissfully slow, as Grantaire bestowed one last lingering kiss to his lips and hooked his fingers around the waistband of his underwear, pulling them down to his knees, and “ _Oh_ –” he gasped, because there was Grantaire’s mouth, warm and wet and perfect, and all he could think between _Jesus, Mary, and Joseph that feels so good_ was _I’m marrying this man, this wonderful man who cares about consent and loves the Classics and can’t do a somersault_ , and then time’s syrupy, drunken pace came to a complete halt for a split second before resuming normally as he reached his climax and Grantaire pulled away and kissed him again.

“Do you want…” he panted, hands trailing towards Grantaire’s hips, “I could…”

Grantaire chuckled. “You’re beat, Ange, don’t even worry about it. Besides, getting you off gets me off.”

 Enjolras realized that he really was exhausted, as his next breath turned into a drawn out yawn. “Okay, if you say so.” Grantaire got up and Enjolras let his eyes close momentarily, only to be startled awake when Grantaire pressed a wet washcloth to his abdomen.

“You can go to sleep, Ange, I’m just cleaning up,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss Enjolras’s forehead.

“Night, Aire,” he sighed, already drifting off. “I love you. Let’s be together forever, ‘kay?”

He was asleep before Grantaire answered, “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consent!!!!!!!! :D Literally the only reason I wrote the sexy part instead of leaving it implied was because I got really really excited about wonderful, loving consent. This chapter was sort o a break from the Enjolras-Has-Flipped_out helltrain but I assure you it'll be back next week, right on schedule for the wedding! (ARE YOU GUYS PSYCHED BC I AM SO PSYCHED)


	8. The Wedding Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire sat on the battered futon at Joly’s apartment, staring numbly at the coffee table. “I’m getting married today,” he announced, for the fourth time in a row. Like the other three times, Joly and Bossuet made vague noises of agreement.  
> \- - - - -  
> “Enjolras, you have got to chill.”
> 
> “Chill?” Enjolras repeated incredulously. “How am I supposed to chill?” He kept pacing Combeferre’s living room floor. “I’m getting married. Married. I’m having a wedding.”

Grantaire sat on the battered futon at Joly’s apartment, staring numbly at the coffee table. “I’m getting married today,” he announced, for the fourth time in a row. Like the other three times, Joly and Bossuet made vague noises of agreement.

“This time tomorrow I’ll be married,” he said slowly. “I’ll be married. Ange and I’ll be at home. As a fucking married couple. Husbands. I’m going to have a fucking husband.”

“Don’t think about it that way,” Bossuet said firmly. “You guys have lived together for, what, two years? You’re just gonna keep doing that. After an awesome celebration of your awesome love. And some legal blah blah.”

“Some legal blah blah,” Grantaire repeated with a snort. “I can see why you dropped out of law school. But, come on, you know it’s more than that. It’s not just, like, strolling down to City Hall to pay a traffic ticket. It’s _marriage_.”

“Who says that marriage is a big deal?” Musichetta scoffed. “Certainly not the three of us. I mean, the tax benefits might be nice, but other than that, who cares?”

Bossuet laughed. “You guys wouldn’t want to marry me. My credit score is abysmal.”

“See?” Musichetta said. “It’s great that you get to do this. But it doesn’t even really matter.”

“And it’s definitely not something to stress over,” Joly added.

Grantaire shook his head. “Tell that to Enjolras. He’s been totally stressed over it.” He frowned. “I hope he’s okay,” he muttered.

“Don’t worry about Enjolras,” Bossuet said dismissively. “He’s probably fine. Your job right now is to get dressed.”

\- - - - -

“Enjolras, you have got to chill.”

“ _Chill_?” Enjolras repeated incredulously. “How am I supposed to chill?” He kept pacing Combeferre’s living room floor. “I’m getting married. _Married._ I’m having a _wedding._ ”

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said again, more plaintively, “just _relax_.”

“I _can’t_ relax!” he insisted vehemently. “I feel like I’m going crazy!” He paced the room three more times, trying and failing to keep his breaths even, before he changed course, dropped onto the couch, and burst into tears.

His friends were at his sides in seconds. “Hey, hey, Ange, just breathe! We’re right here and I swear everything’s okay!” Courfeyrac said.

_No,_ Enjolras’s mind screamed, _nothing about this is okay._ He sobbed harder.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre began, keeping his voice steady. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

 “I – I can’t do this.”

There was a radio silence before Courfeyrac said, “Wait. Are you serious?”

Combeferre cut in. “Do you mean that you don’t want to marry Grantaire or that you’re just scared?”

It took a minute, but he finally forced out, “I’m scared.”

He nodded solemnly. “Scared of what?”

He sniffled and tried to catch his breath. “I-I’m scared of getting married, and of seeing my parents at the wedding, I’m scared that Grantaire doesn’t want to marry me, that I ruined our relationship. I don’t know, I’m just scared that something bad will happen, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it? Like the wedding will be horrible, and that’ll set the tone for our whole marriage.”

“You know that’s silly,” Combeferre said gently.

He choked out a laugh. “Hell, I’m even scared that I’m turning silly. I just feel so out of control,” he mumbled.

“Come on, Enjolras, you’re not out of control! We can deal with all this!” Courfeyrac comforted him. “Everyone’s scared of getting married and you’ll get through it, your parents are coming whether you want them to or not and life will go on, and Grantaire is crazy in love with you and there’s no way you could change that!”

“I guess,” he sighed. “But what if I did? I’ve been so awful to him and – and I don’t even know how to begin to apologize! He shouldn’t want to marry me. _I_ wouldn’t want to marry me!” On that note his resolve crumpled and he started crying again.  
“Enjolras…” Courfeyrac sighed, but he didn’t say anything else, and neither did Combeferre. They just sat and held him for god knows how long until he finally calmed down. Much to his surprise, when he was done crying he felt – well, not really better, but normal. Or at least more normal than he’d felt in months.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Combeferre assured him when he lifted his head from his hands and rubbed his eyes dry. “You’re going to wash your face and brush your hair and then you’re going to get married. To Grantaire, whom you love, and who loves you. And we’ll be there with you the whole time.”

There was still a touch of fear in his chest, but he took a deep breath. Finally, he knew what he wanted. “I have to go see Grantaire.”

Courfeyrac gaped at him. “But, Ange, you’re not supposed to see him!”

“When have I ever done what I was _supposed_ to do?” he retorted, standing up.

“You’re not even fully dressed!”

“Good. He won’t see my whole outfit.” He pulled on the weekend sneakers he’d worn to Combeferre’s.

“Is there any way I can talk you out of this?” Courfeyrac asked, at a loss.

Enjolras stopped in front of the door, his arms crossed. “We have two options. I’m going to see Grantaire, or we’re calling off the wedding.”

“Is he for real?” Courfeyrac complained. Combeferre just shook his head, sighing.

Enjolras smiled grimly. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

\- - - - -

“Grantaire, you have to eat _something_!”

Grantaire shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

“At least have some toast,” Joly wheedled. “You’ll starve!”

“Look, do you want me to starve until after the ceremony or do you want me to throw up toast on your futon?”

“Give it up, Joly,” Bossuet advised. “He’s not going to eat. And please don’t throw up,” he added to Grantaire. “If you do I might throw up.”

All three of their heads turned as someone knocked on the door. “Who the hell could that be?” Grantaire muttered.

The next thing they heard was Musichetta, answering the door. “Enjolras? What are you doing here?”

Grantaire stood up immediately. “Ange?” he called.

Enjolras came into the room with Musichetta hovering behind him, marched straight over to Grantaire, and hugged him tightly.

Grantaire’s mouth dropped open. “Hey, uh, is everything okay?”

“I needed to see you,” Enjolras murmured. “If I didn’t see you I was going to get scared and not go through with it.”

“Not go through with… the wedding?” he asked, surprised. Joly and Bossuet had conveniently disappeared. “Are you okay, Ange?”

Enjolras laughed humorlessly. “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. But I had to see you. I had to see you and tell you I’m sorry. I’m sorry for getting so stressed and taking it out on you and being too scared to talk about it, and I’m especially sorry for all the times I didn’t say I was sorry. I’m sorry for all of that.” He pulled back and look at Grantaire, his eyes full of apprehension. “You still want to marry me, right?”

“ _Still want to marry you_?” he repeated in amazement. “Of course I still want to marry you! Jesus, Ange, all that is nothing! Just stupid stuff! Look, I love you. I’ve wanted to marry you since probably months before I asked you. I’ve wanted to marry you every single day between when I asked you and now. And I guarantee that every day after today will be another day that I wake up and feel glad that I’m married to you.” He could feel his face starting to flush after such a dramatic profession. “So don’t worry. Okay?”

“God, I don’t deserve you, Aire,” Enjolras whispered.

“Sure you do,” Grantaire said with a smile. Enjolras smiled back tentatively. “You didn’t have to apologize. Although I will admit, it means the world to me that you did. I guess I trusted that you would, eventually. And I love you for proving me right.”

“I love you, too.” Enjolras kissed him, and he responded enthusiastically.  
“Hey, save it for the honeymoon, yeah?” Bossuet said from the doorway, sounding amused.

Grantaire scoffed and flipped him off. “You should probably be getting back,” he said quietly, smiling. “We have a wedding to attend, you know.”

“Do we? I almost forgot,” Enjolras replied teasingly.

Grantaire laughed, then grew solemn. “I love you. A lot. And even when you frustrate me, I’ll still love you just as much. Now, go on, _fiancé_ , and I’ll see you in an hour.”

Enjolras grinned. “See you in an hour.” He kissed him again quickly, and slipped past Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, who were gathered in the doorway.

Grantaire turned to them and sighed, smiling nonetheless. “You win, Joly. I’ll have _one_ piece of toast.”

\- - - - -

Enjolras didn’t think he’d ever felt so exhilarated. Hand in hand with Grantaire, he walked through the door Joly and Combeferre had just thrown open onto the walkway in front of City Hall. Almost immediately a spray of flowers rained onto them as Grantaire pulled him into a fierce kiss, their hands still entangled. He heard the shutter clicking furiously on Éponine’s camera all through the kiss, as they went down the walkway, as Gavroche handed them the rings and they put them on each other’s fingers, and as they kissed again. Enjolras smiled until his face hurt and didn’t let go of Grantaire’s hand until they got into the limo and collapsed onto the seats.

“Oh my god,” Grantaire groaned. “I’m so fucking hungry. Is there food in here?”

Enjolras blinked. “I think so. Over there?” He pointed at one of the side compartments and Grantaire dove for it.

“Peanut butter crackers!” he shouted victoriously after a moment. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.” He sat back down, ripping open the package.

“We just got married, lunatic!” Enjolras cried, gaping at him.

“I’m starving, lunatic,” Grantaire retorted around a mouthful of peanut butter. “Don’t tell Joly, though. He kept saying one piece of toast wasn’t enough and I don’t want him to know he was right.”

Enjolras huffed. “You’re ridiculous. I just married the most ridiculous person in the world.”

“I’ll have to disagree,” Grantaire shot back. “ _I_ just married the most ridiculous person in the world.”

Enjolras tutted, offended. “Okay, I’ll play along. What makes _me_ the most ridiculous person in the world when _you’re_ going into raptures over crackers?”

“Let’s see,” Grantaire cleared his throat and started ticking items off on his fingers. “Every year you _forget_ about at least one major holiday, you once punched a _police officer_ , you unironically love the national anthem, I took you to see the original Starry Night and you said it was, quote, ‘ _okay_ ’… I could go on,” he offered, laughing.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, fighting a smile. “I will concede that I am very ridiculous if you concede that you are too.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Grantaire agreed. He took Enjolras’s hand. “Look at us. A couple of ridiculous newlyweds.”

No, Enjolras didn’t think he’d ever felt so exhilarated, and he highly doubted he ever would again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay!!!! Enjolras finally got his shit together and now eveything's okay!!!! I almost wrote the reception but it wasn't working out so I'll just briefly mention the things I wanted to happen:  
> -Foie gras is being served, so Enjolras and Grantaire have a fun inside joke moment about it (throwback to chapter 4)  
> -They have their first official married-couple squabble over who should take the first piece of croquembouche  
> -Grantaire cries during toasts and tries to lighten the mood by complaining about being forced to down four glasses of sparkling grape juice  
> -After toasts everyone watches a slideshow made by Bahorel and Courfeyrac to embarrass the grooms (it's a French thing). It includes ordinary things like bad childhood pictures but also, more notably, a video clip and Grantaire trying to jump over a parked car (suffice to say it didn't end well)  
> -The more youthful guests interrupt Enjolras and Grantaire's first attempt at consummation by banging pots and pans and hollering outside their apartment in the wee hours of the morning (another very important activity steeped in French tradition)
> 
> Well, I don't know when Part 3 will take off, but I promise it will before the end of time. In the meantime I might do a totally different exr fic; I have four or five possibilities in progress
> 
> Thanks to everyone who stuck with me to the end! I so appreciate all your support!

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who wrote a wedding fiiiic! Ahhh, I'm so excited! I know this first bit is ridiculously short, which I excuse by calling it the prologue. It is also ridiculously saccharine, which will not be true for the whole story. It's going to be a fluctuation between sweet and painful.  
> This is in the same universe as my fic Mistletoe, which you don't need to read to keep up but which I suggest you do read, because it's really fucking cute.  
> And I have tons to say about everything that's happened in the four or so years between that fic and this one!  
> Enjolras and Grantaire started dating at the tail end of 2015, when Enjolras was in grad school and Grantaire was a mess with a useless art degree. They were both canon age, so when this fic starts, in 2019, Enjolras is 29 and Grantaire is 31, which I find endlessly amusing. He spent most of 2017 getting sober, then realized he needed to get the rest of his act together and went back to school to become an art teacher. In 2019 he's in his third year, and by the time of the wedding (April 25th, 2020, if anyone cares) he'll be approaching his last year.  
> I could go into detail about all the French wedding traditions but I'll spare you. If anyone really wants to know anything about French weddings hit me up, because I probably know it. I did so much research.  
> Whew! I think that's it! Thanks for reading and sorry for all the notes! Another chapter will be posted next Monday!


End file.
